


Art in the Blood

by PeopleCoveredInFish



Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Character of Color, F/F, Genderswap, Lesbian Character, because Sherlock and Mycroft actually got on rather well in canon, female mycroft headcanon, preslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-04
Updated: 2012-09-04
Packaged: 2017-11-13 12:30:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeopleCoveredInFish/pseuds/PeopleCoveredInFish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan is vaguely aware that there were days in her past where waking up to a strange woman on her couch would have been an unusual circumstance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Art in the Blood

**Author's Note:**

> written before I saw the pilot, so no spoilers! Based on my own headcanon on what a female Mycroft might be like in the Elementary verse.

Joan is vaguely aware that there were days in her past where waking up to a strange woman on her couch would have been an unusual circumstance.

These days, it’s simply a product of living in the general vicinity of Sherlock Holmes, and his New York, which is restless and strung-out and a bit too wealthy bohemian for hers. 

So she’s in her living room and she’s in her bathrobe—and it’s that one, too short and from an ex-girlfriend—and a very tall woman wearing a suit that probably costs four months of Joan’s salary is paging through Sherlock’s medical records.

Joan clears her throat and the woman smiles at her, and it’s too familiar for someone who clearly broke into the apartment while Joan was sleeping. 

She’s still holding the medical records. “He knew I knew he was lying about the dysplasia.”

The woman’s voice is fondly critical, her accent pure London public school, and her eyes run over Joan in a rapid hopscotch pattern, just like—

“Mycroft Holmes,” says the woman, standing and offering her hand, “believe me, it’s a pleasure.”

Joan flashes a tight little smile in return and nods at the records. “Holmes never told me he had a sister. May I?”

Mycroft glances down at the papers in her hand as though surprised to see them. “Of course. I apologize, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Ah,” says Joan, noncommittally, wishing, not for the first time, that there was a camera in the room at which she could shoot her exasperated glances, or, failing that, a Holmes at which she could shoot.

She looks at Mycroft, who is interrogating the nearest wall with her indomitable deductive gaze.

Well, not looking too bad on that second front. 

"Been here long?"

Mycroft turns towards her again, still holding the paperwork. "In New York?"

"In my living room."

"Perhaps the better part of an hour," Mycroft admits.

If she really was a Holmes--and she had to be--there was no perhaps about it. At least this one has the decency to pretend at embarrassment. 

"Do you want something?"

Joan knows it's ridiculous seconds before she's sent it tripping down her tongue, people like Mycroft Holmes don't do anything for want. Drive, personal passion, Joan wonders if it's immaterial to this woman, or if it's merely more complex than the slender string of desire that tugs at the insides of most other humans. Maybe Mycroft has people for that. 

"I heard you took him to the opera," Mycroft says, and Joan doubts very sincerely that she had heard any such thing. 

"That was the idea," Joan responds, and holds out her hand for the file. 

Holmes' sister--Holmes, really, but something else entirely different, Schrodinger's Holmes, and what would happen if Joan took her apart--places the dense and paper-packed manila folder in Joan's grasp. 

"He's never liked opera," says Mycroft, and she lifts a handsomely thick eyebrow.

Joan frowns. "He seemed a bit--"

"Critical," Mycroft laughs, "yes, he's very particular. I'm afraid he got that from me."

"You're a musician?"

Joan can't quite imagine it, subsuming the power of a mind like that under the silk of counterpoint and measured melody, but if she shifts her gaze she can see it, the pull of decadence and structure. 

"I was, for a short time."

And Joan had played the oboe in her college orchestra, it was a blanket of calm over her fretting pre-med mind, she even studied advanced theory but all she can say is, "oh?"

Mycroft's answering smile is not as patronizing as it could have been. "You're curious as to my current living."

Who says 'living'? Who has ever said living, outside the pages of an Austen novel?

"I'm an accountant at the British Embassy," Mycroft explains. 

"Don't be daft, Mycroft, it's practically a sinecure," comes Sherlock's voice, and how long has he been on her sofa?

"Oh, bless," says Mycroft fondly, with a light roll of her eyes, "and of course the fact that I'm always working doesn't put a damper on your opinion."

"Not an opinion," Sherlock says, and he's standing now, brushing past Joan to stand, arms crossed, in front of Mycroft, who's got a full two inches on him. "You're always working," he continues, "because nothing would run without you and--you were about to tell her about the opera, I see."

"An opera singer," Joan says, surprised. She would have guessed cellist. 

Sherlock turns to her. "Our grandmother was a painter, French. Vernet. Art in the blood, you know. It's liable to take the strangest forms."

Mycroft looks tired for a moment, and Joan can see the shadows of concerts on her face and she wonders what, exactly, cannot run without her. 

"I'd best be off," says Mycroft, "I have…things."

Joan shakes her head instinctively at the stark shift in linguistic style, and Mycroft moves towards the doorway, but stops before crossing the threshold. "Joan. It was delightful," she says, and her smile is toothy and has Joan not knowing quite what to do with her hands. 

"I knew you knew I knew you knew I was lying about the dysplasia," Sherlock tells Mycroft. 

She tilts her head back when she laughs. "Oh, dear brother, I know."


End file.
